


Where Do We Begin - The Rubble, Or Our Sins?

by kam



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-25 10:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 9,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kam/pseuds/kam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the apparently-too-long-prompt:</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bilingual_Me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bilingual_Me/gifts).



> Hi, I've never done this before, but here is what I really like. I'm a little masochistic and no I'm not asking for a BDSM fic here, I'm asking for some serious pining on both Sherlock's and John's side. Like you know world-class pining and all that self-deprecating sh*t where you just hurt for both of them and want to mash their heads together until they understand they are secretly in love with each other... sherlock thinks: john isn't gay and is never going to fall for his crazy-ass because no one has ever loved him and John is like: sherlock is not interested in anyone and if he were he would be interested in someone like irene and not a small ex-army doctor...  
> There can be John moving-out or Sherlock throwing him out... Sherlock could start going on dates because he needs to get john out of his system or whatever or he could get really really promiscous... I don't care just as long as it really hurts because they are such sad faces until finally finallly there is a happy ending... preferably one where mrs hudson, mycroft and lestrade join forces to get the two idiots together because Mrs. Hudson wants them to be finally happy, Mycroft wants Sherlock to stop anoying him for cases or whatever or stop him to steal all his cake idk and Lestrade just wants the good old pubnights with John back where he does not have to sit next to his depressed pining friend... (i would not mind a mystrade subplot or an already established mystrade)

It began, I suppose, with Jeanette. The whole Christmas party was a disaster, I don’t know _why_ I thought it would work. And as really just _horrible_ as I felt for Molly, because she really _is_ a sweet girl and no one deserves to be embarrassed that way, I couldn’t help but feel that same rush of excitement – it comes every time Sherlock makes his deductions, even when they’re followed by a wildly flawed conclusion. So maybe I should have known. Maybe I should have seen it coming – would have, if I was as clever as Sherlock. I knew, I mean, that it wasn’t really going anywhere. My heart simply wasn’t in it. My heart _hasn’t_ been in it, not since I came back. I suppose I care more about _being_ with someone than about _who_ that someone is. If I were the particularly introspective sort, I might theorize that it has to do with how bloody _broken_ I am. Honestly, I’m a soldier who can’t fight and a doctor who can’t heal. What’s the bloody _point_? So I need someone, I need that validation that I am still worth _something_ to _someone_. Sarah worked for a bit, I really thought… Well, I hoped, anyway. But it was the same thing with her as it would be with Angie, then with Georgia, and then with Jeanette. Jeanette was special, though. Because all the others left for the same reason, because of Sherlock, but Jeanette was the first to make me truly think about that. To think about how, despite how much I desperately wanted someone to love me, someone to make me whole, the moment Sherlock called it all became unimportant. _They_ became unimportant. All these women, like a parade of new toys to a child who will play with them all day, but at night drags out his favorite stuffed bear to sleep with. A fleeting moment of interest, of excitement, could never compare to what Sherlock gives me. Because, as it turns out, Sherlock is what makes me whole.

The Woman made it achingly clear. I began to suspect, as I said, after Jeanette. Then _she_ came along, took away his attention, and suddenly _I_ became the old stuffed bear, cast aside in favor of a new and exciting toy. It _hurt_. It hurt in a way it shouldn’t have. Because I am, if you’ll recall, Not Gay™. Which absolutely precludes me from having Feelings for my (decidedly male) flatmate. Which, incidentally, precludes me from having Hurt Feelings when he stops paying attention to me.

 

John is upset with me. I’ve no idea _why_ , obviously – I haven’t done anything that he deems Not Good recently. I suppose maybe… Does he believe I was too harsh with The Woman? That I handled it poorly? Perhaps, but that seems unlikely. He has never objected to my actions before, at least not after they have produced the desired results. Well. Not especially strenuously, anyway. But this is not a protestation. This is simply… There is a space between us now, that was never there before. Since the beginning, despite his hesitance, we have _fit_. If I believed in such nonsense (which I _don’t,_ ) I would say that we _belong_ together, that we were _destined_. Which is complete and utter rubbish, of course, because such things as destiny do not exist. John Watson is _not_ my destiny, because he can’t be. But if he could be, he would.

I don’t mind, for the most part. His being Not Gay™, that is. I’m not, either. I mean. I have experienced sexual attraction seven times so far. To seven subjects, that is. People, I mean. Not subjects. John would think that was Not Good, to call them that. There are terms, names for all of this. I _know_ them, naturally, but I don’t know… I can’t tell what causes it. There is no common factor. Certainly, none of the previous subjects possessed eyes that were alternately the color of a warm Spring day and the color of the ocean during a storm. They have names, also, of course they do, those colors. But those _names_ , those _words_ can’t describe the way, when he smiles and his eyes crinkle a bit, when his eyes are as blue as Spring, you can feel the warmth of the sun, smell the fresh grass and the promise of rain. There _is_ no word for that, except perhaps John.

I don’t know how to fix this. This space, this chasm between us, which makes me hesitate to touch his shoulder or enter his room uninvited or smile for too long, particularly if I’ve met his eyes. It feels… Invasive. It feels undeserved. I haven’t earned the flash of his teeth when he grins, the way he cocks his head when he thinks, exposing his neck, or the sliver of skin he bares when he stretches in the morning, his vest riding up, a trail of dark blonde hair peeking out. And I don’t know _how_ to earn them. Because before, I could earn them by being clever, by _knowing_ the things other people didn’t know. That’s not enough, now. Now, I need _more_ , I need to do more, know more, and I _don’t_. And he is going to start giving those things, those grins and his eyes and the bits of him I pretended he kept for me, to someone else. And it will be my own fault for not being clever enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't have anything clever to say yet. sorry about the huge blocks of text. there will be dialogue, i promise.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s quieter now, since she left. Since whatever Mycroft did to her. Had done to her, naturally, he wouldn’t get his hands dirty actually _doing_ anything. He smiles less, chatters less. For the most part, that is, because sometimes, he will talk and talk and talk, and there is this desperate quality to it, as though these things _must_ be said, as though he must prove that he knows them. It must be because of her. He needs to prove he is smarter than she is, perhaps that he doesn’t _need_ her, that it doesn’t _matter_. But it does. Because since she left, he’s changed. And I am… I’ve changed, too. I _know_ things, now, things I didn’t know before, things I ignored or didn’t see, things that simply… They weren’t important, not like they are now. And I can’t go back, I can’t _unknow_ them, which I think I want, sometimes, to go back to the way it was before. Only, sometimes I don’t want to. Sometimes, it seems that all I have is this, this knowledge that hurts, but is real. It’s true. And as far away from him as I am now, I feel closer. I notice things, now, that I wouldn’t have. Things like the curve of his neck, how pale the skin is, stretched tight across his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. I notice the flashes of skin, at his cuffs, between his buttons, his ankles and stomach, when he wears his pyjamas. I notice the way his hair curls, just at the ends, especially  at the nape of his neck. I notice, and I remember.

I use those memories later, of course I do. I can’t have him, but I can _imagine_. I can _want_. It didn’t start that way. It started with a dream. A dream full of skin, pale in the moonlight and stretched tight over bones, of teeth and nails, of red marks and gasps and then suddenly… Suddenly I was awake, and the only thing that was real was the heat in my face and the way my sheets stuck to me, the way they hadn’t since sixth form. And it went from there.

 

John is sexually frustrated. His masturbatory habits have increased, drastically. He desires a new romantic relationship, a new partner. _No_. _I_ am his partner. We. We are partners, together. He desires a… A sexual relationship. A woman, that is. He desires a sexual and/or romantic relationship with a woman, in order to fulfill the aspects of a relationship I cannot (read: he does not want me to.) Not that I… Well. I hardly know. I would, naturally, appreciate the chance to study him. To _see_ him, bared, to learn every part of him. To explore the parts of him he keeps hidden beneath jumpers and sensible shoes. The parts he shares with _them_.

What, incidentally, is so _special_ about these _women_ he brings home? It’s clearly not a specific bit of their anatomy, they’re never the same. Their ages vary, as does their skin tone, height, and style of dress. John is too clever to pick them solely based on their genitalia. I _understand_ , of course, I _see_ that he would never pick me. I could never… I am brilliant and clever and (I’ve been assured multiple times) beautiful, as far as that goes. But I am not… I’m different. I’m rubbish at _this_. John needs someone who can offer him the same things he can offer them, someone he can go out with without being ashamed, someone who can dress up and play nice and not embarrass him. I’m alright when it’s simply the two of us – he _likes_ the way I am, mostly. Thinks I’m clever. But he could never love me. Loving someone requires them to have more desirable bits than not. And I don’t.

It has begun to affect my work. I am hesitant, except when I am brash – I want so badly to impress him, to make him happy with me, to make him _notice_ me. My behavior is ‘worse’ than normal, I am angry, sullen, I lash out unnecessarily. On the whole, it is terribly unattractive. I want to curl up inside of him, and I am sure this will come across in my private interactions with him, so I have limited them. If only there was a marginally interesting case, a proper homicide, a particularly clever thief, _anything_ , I would have something to occupy my mind. But for now, there’s only him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still just giant blocks of text!  
> #itgetsbetter  
> ...i feel kinda bad using that as a joke.  
> WHATEVER IT'S APPROPRIATE.


	3. Chapter 3

“Does Sherlock ever… Does he _talk_ to you?”

“I would be less surprised at a declaration of undying love for Ms. Adler than I would be if my brother wished to have a _chat_ with me.”

“So, no, then.”

“No.”

“He’s been off, lately. Have you noticed?”

“Indeed. He’s… Ineffective, of late.”                                         

“Christ, Mycroft, have a bit of compassion. He’s your brother.”

“I am compassionate, Greg. I love him, in my own way, as he loves me in his. Yes, I have noticed a change in his behavior and demeanor. It seems to have come about shortly after The Incident. Perhaps related to The Woman, though it seems unlikely.”

“You know it’s not her, Mycroft.”

“I know. Wouldn’t it be so much _simpler_ , though, if it were?”

“Nothing is simple with Sherlock.”

“True. Did you intend to _do_ anything about this, or is this idle speculation?”

“I don’t know, I just… He seems miserable. It’s affecting John, as well.”

“Do you suppose..?”

“John? No, I… I don’t think so. He’s just a normal bloke, just… Well. I’ve seen the women he likes. Sherlock isn’t his type. Bit too prickly. And bony.”

“And yet, he has remained with Sherlock for more than a year now. The first to do so, might I add. There’s something different between them.”

“Look, turns out you were right. It _was_ just idle speculation. Cause it’s time for bed now, innit? Coming?”

“Naturally. I only have… Three more reports to review. I shan’t be longer than an hour.”

“Git. Come to bed.”

“Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, thank you beccab for saying such nice stuff about my writing.
> 
> second, Bilingual_Me - seriously, if your heart is *already* breaking, you better hold on to the fragments, son. shit's gonna get real.
> 
> and by real, i mean real bad.
> 
> which is grammatically incorrect. i don't like it.
> 
> also, look! dialogue! just like i promised!


	4. Chapter 4

“Molly has allowed me free use of the laboratory this evening. I intend to conduct several rather delicate experiments. Your assistance would be quite useful.”

Come with me. I miss you, your presence. The way you sit, slightly apart from me, and simply _watch_ , simply _observe_ , and I miss the things you see.

“I was, um, actually supposed to meet someone for dinner. And then Lestrade and I had planned to do a pub crawl after.”

“John. Your assistance would be _very_ useful. One might go so far as to call it necessary. Molly’s hands aren’t as steady as yours.”

You see? I _need_ you. No one else will do. Please.

“I can’t cancel this date again. Is all. I’ve done twice now. That’s Not Good.”

No. No, that’s… Not a date. You _can’t_ have a date. Not now, not when I don’t know how to earn you back. This isn’t _right_ , John, can’t you see? I need to regain the bit of you that belongs to me, then you can go on all the dates you want.

“John… These experiments are vitally important to my research.”

You are vitally important to me.

“I can’t.”

 

“Molly has allowed me free use of the laboratory this evening. I intend to conduct several rather delicate experiments. Your assistance would be quite useful.”

Useful? Useful used to be enough. I would drop everything for useful.

“I was, um, actually supposed to meet someone for dinner. And then Lestrade and I had planned to do a pub crawl after.”

I can’t stand to be simply ‘useful’. A hat rack is useful. An umbrella is useful. Can’t I be more, _please_?

“John. Your assistance would be _very_ useful. One might go so far as to call it necessary. Molly’s hands aren’t as steady as yours.”

My _assistance_.

“I can’t cancel this date again. Is all. I’ve done twice now. That’s Not Good.”

Is that all you want? My assistance, my steady hands? It’s not fair, Sherlock, it isn’t. And not when I have this chance to… Well, she may only want me for my steady hands as well, but I _need_ this, need another person, a warm body next to me. I’d like it to be yours.

“John… These experiments are vitally important to my research.”

But it can’t.

“I can’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't words.


	5. Chapter 5

John comes into the pub, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes narrowed, mouth roughly a centimetre away from a snarl. He stomps over to the bar, throws himself onto a stool, and scowls at me.

“Date went poorly?”

“I wish,”

he growls, glaring at the barman until I order two pints,

“that I could _tell_ , the way _he_ does, whether a person was… _Insipid_. Just by looking at them. That I didn’t have to waste time buying them _dinner_ , just to find out whether they’re… That they’re…”

That they’re not him, he doesn’t say, and I just nod sympathetically, pushing his pint over to him.

“So I take it there won’t be a second date?”

“She wanted one,”

he all but roars, and I flinch and send apologetic looks round the room.

“Asked if I was free again on Tuesday,”

he continues, quieter now.

“Spent the whole evening blathering on about _God only knows what_ , and then expected I would want to do it again.”

I don’t tell him, naturally, that this is almost _exactly_ how Sherlock described his first and only date.

“To be quite honest, I just want to drink enough to block this evening out.”

He buries his head in his arms for roughly two seconds, before popping up again.

“AND. And. _He_ has been sending me _these_ all evening. I almost wish I’d… Well, here.”

He hands me his mobile, and I scroll through a dozen SMS’s, each sent at precisely ten minute intervals.

‘I ask once again that you reconsider your decision _vis_ –à– _vis_ my earlier invitation. SH. _’_

‘Molly has threatened to leave if I raise my voice again. SH.’

‘Molly has left – this was inevitable. SH.’

‘Require an assistant. SH.’

‘Require YOUR assistance. SH.’

‘Working with inherently dangerous chemical mixtures. Possibility of explosion. Request your assistance. SH.’

‘Have spilled acid. SH.’

‘Have set several stacks of paper on fire. Come at once. SH.’

‘Lack of assistance has directly led to accidental combination of chloroform with a nitrile. SH.’

‘Unsure of protocol on alerting authorities to presence of toxic fumes. SH.’

‘John. SH.’

‘Have returned home. Somewhat dizzy. Come at once. SH.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sherlock is extremely responsible.


	6. Chapter 6

‘John is pissed.’

‘Another pub night, Greg? Honestly. MH.’

‘We were due one. Feel like sending a car?’

‘I have already alerted Anthea. She is on her way. MH.’

‘I can’t decide if I like that you always know where I am.’

‘Had that been of any concern, I would have asked permission before installing the tracking device. MH.’

‘NOT FUNNY.’

‘John’s in love with Sherlock, by the way.’

‘Is he? MH.’

‘All he’s talked about all evening is Sherlock.’

‘That is hardly an indicator of romantic feeling. MH.’

‘Trust me on this one.’

‘Naturally. As ever, I defer to your expertise in matters of drunkenness. MH.’

‘Someone’s sleeping on the sofa tonight.’

‘I believe you will change your mind upon your return. MH.’

‘Are you wearing..?’

‘Indeed I am. MH.’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get it, lestrade.  
> run home and GET IT.


	7. Chapter 7

I don’t remember quite how I got home from the pub, or how I ended up in my own bed, stripped down to my pants and vest. I was impossibly glad to wake up alone, though. I’d had a horrible dream, a dream with hands all over me, lifting me, dragging me, alternately tender and cruel, and I woke up feeling sick to my stomach. I’d apparently had the good sense to bring a pail up with me, and I managed not to get sick all over the floor. As soon as I could get up without the room spinning, I made my way down to the loo, intent on a shower.

The first thing, the first _real_ thing, is John’s voice. It’s… Scared, concerned? He doesn’t know. He’s asking what’s wrong, am I sick, and then cursing, angry, he should have come home when I asked, should have known, Christ, how could he leave me like this? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t…

I manage to haul him over to the toilet before he vomits all over himself, and he’s shaking, coughing, tears streaming down his cheeks, and this is _my_ fault, I should’ve been here. I ignored him, I knew he’d done something stupid, knew he’d… What was it, what was it, chloroform with a nitrile, that makes… Christ, cyanogen chloride. Oh, God. This is my fault.

The carbononitridic chloride was true, that happened. But the exposure was minimal, less than a lungful. True, I was dizzy for approximately fifteen minutes, but that is just as likely to have been a result of holding my breath until I could leave the laboratory as being caused by exposure to a poisonous gas. This is not that. This is. This is. I have to concentrate. Not on his hand on my back, the gentle rubbing motion. Back and forth. Up and down. My stomach is empty. Has been empty. The acid burns my throat. It hurts, but I deserve this.

He’s pale, shaking, sweating. There are black circles around his eyes, his hair is pasted flat to his head. His chest is bare, his pyjama pants dip past his hipbone on one side, exposing the sharp angle. He doesn’t answer when I say his name, when I ask how bad it was, how long. How much. He winces away from my touch, shivering and retching, though there’s nothing left to come up. I tell him I need to take him to A&E. He hunches farther over the bowl, retching again.

Benzoylmethylecgonine and diacetylmorphine. It wasn’t what I wanted. He _knew_ it wasn’t what I wanted. He knows… Seven percent. Pure. That is what I have _always_ used, and he knows… I should have known, should have noticed. I just… I needed to forget. I needed to be alright, alright that John was gone, that he was with someone else, that he didn’t answer. I needed John.

 

“Come on, mate, come on, up, we’ve got to get you to emergencies.”

“No, I… Not there I can’t…”

“It’s alright, Sherlock, they won’t know you did it. I won’t tell them.”

“I don’t need…”

“You do, mate, come on. You do.”

“It’s not. It’s not. Don’t. I didn’t.”

“You’re not well, you need to…”

“ _Please_ , I didn’t mean it. I just needed you and you were gone and I didn’t mean it, please.”

“Didn’t mean what?”

“It was Victor. I told him, but he didn’t… That wasn’t what I wanted.”

“ _What_ wasn’t what you wanted, Sherlock.”

“Don’t, don’t make me…”

“Tell me. Tell me this is about the accident last night in the lab.”

“Only a breath. Just the one. I couldn’t… I went home. You didn’t come.”

“So you did _what_.”

“No, it was Victor.”

“ _What_ was Victor. Who is Victor?”

“Benzoylmethylecgonine and diacetylmorphine.”

“What does that _mean_ , Sherlock?”

“Benzoyl…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> strap in, you guys.
> 
> also, did i mention how wikipedia is like, my best friend?
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO: in case it's confusing, the first six paragraph-type-deals alternate between john and sherlock


	8. Chapter 8

“John, what a pleasant… ”

“Who is Victor?”

Mycroft finally looks up as I drop Sherlock’s body onto a chair.

“Oh, dear.”

“Who. Is. Victor.”

“He is alive, of course? Simply…”

“WHO IS VICTOR.”

“I’m afraid Victor is an old schoolmate of my brother’s.”

“What is benzoyl-something-or-other and dia-something-morphine?”

Mycroft purses his lips and tents his hands, so like Sherlock.

“I believe the commonly used name is ‘speedball.’ It is a mixture of cocaine and heroin.”

“So he… Victor and…”

“I’m afraid so. I assume he refused to go to hospital?”

“He’s bleeding, you know.”

“It is not uncommon for him to have fallen and…”

“ _Not_ from a fall.”

“Then he… Oh. Oh, dear.”

He glances at Sherlock, who hasn’t moved.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t..?”

“Don’t bloody play that shit with me, Mycroft. I _can’t_. Not like… Not like this. The drugs and… Another… I can’t.”

“It is not as you suppose, John. He only…”

“I don’t _care_. I have to… You tell him. When he wakes up. I’ll be… Well, I’m sure you’ll know. But I can’t, not like this. Not if he’s going to…”

“There are things you don’t know, John, things you must…”

“No. It doesn’t matter, Mycroft, and maybe you know why and maybe you don’t, but I have to… I have to go.”

 

I pack what I need, my clothes, my laptop, some books. Not much. My gun. I bring my pillow, because Harry’s couch is absolute shit. My life outside of Sherlock fits into three bags. It takes less than an hour to pack, and then another half hour to get to Harry’s. She’s surprised to see me, of course, but she doesn’t press when I tell her I don’t want to talk about it. She just apologises she doesn’t have any beer – part of the program is keeping a ‘dry’ household, and it’s been nine months now, nine months and eight days, and did she tell me that Clara has lunch with her once a week now?

Mycroft’s voice wakes me up, flat, uninterested, but that’s not what forces me onto my side, searching blindly for the pail. The words rattle in my head as I retch, vomiting saline solution and stomach acid onto the floor. The pail is on the other side of the bed. The bed is approximately one metre off the floor. There are two pillows (feather), a sheet (1400 thread count), a blanket (cotton), and a quilt (feather, handmade). I am stripped to my pants. An IV is taped into my right arm, administering a solution of 9% sodium chloride, meant to prevent dehydration. John is gone.

Greg is conflicted. Naturally, he understands John’s reasoning – Sherlock took a bad situation and made it worse – but he also understands Sherlock – that’s what he _does_ , he doesn’t know how to talk about things. He wants me to have tried harder to make John stay, but he knows that would have simply driven him farther away. He wants to tell John _why_ , but it’s not his place, is it? There must be _something_ he can do, only he’s not clever enough to think of it. And I shouldn’t spend so much time worrying about him, not when I have Sherlock to take care of.

Mycroft isn’t ignoring Sherlock, not really. And it’s not my fault if he is, not really. It’s just that, sometimes I remember how absolutely _not clever_ I am, and how clever _he_ is, and I can’t reconcile it. And then he has to spend hours reassuring me, and I don’t _mind_ that, not at all, because that’s another thing he’s quite clever at. Only, now it means he’s reassuring me _instead_ of minding Sherlock, and that’s really not on, is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> owowowowowowowow.
> 
> also, there is a *possibility* my next few updates may not be on schedule - my computer is being wonky and i'm taking it in, so please bear with me.
> 
> also, yay sober!harry!!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO: in case it's confusing - the last four paragraphs are in john's, sherlock's, mycroft's, and lestrade's points of view, respectively.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft insists that I be tested, as I don’t remember well enough to know if he… Well. Or if the needle was clean. He believes me, when I say it wasn’t what I wanted, any of it, that all I wanted was my normal seven percent. He pities me, perhaps, for what I’ve done to myself. He knows what I’ve lost. He pities me, and I relish it, even as I spurn Lestrade’s sympathy. Sympathy is a kind emotion, it is an acknowledgment that something bad has happened, that someone has been hurt. Pity, not so. Pity is contemptuous. Pity comes from a sense of superiority. And Mycroft deserves that, I suppose, because he has Lestrade and I don’t have John.

Lestrade maintains that I must _tell_ John, and I don’t even have the energy to be angry. It has been two days, and I am still weak and exhausted and sick. Lestrade often spends time with me, adopting the here-to-fore unseen persona of a mother hen. He sighs and brushes the hair from my face, patting my hand occasionally. I cannot muster the will to push his hand away. Mycroft has threatened several times to call Mummy or have Mrs. Hudson come over. Such idle threats do not concern me, and all I want is to be left alone.

 

“And he’s been at it for two days already?”

“Yes.”

“Greg, dear, has he said anything to you? Now don’t pout, Mycroft, dear, it’s just that he doesn’t _talk_ to you.”

“He hasn’t, though. He doesn’t like me being there, but I can’t just leave him all alone, can I? Not like this. He’s lost everything.”

Mrs. Hudson nods, refilling Mycroft’s mug.

“Right. How are we going to get John back?”

“Can we? John is stubborn, you know, just like Sherlock is. Maybe even more so, sometimes.”

“Oh, naturally, he’s stubborn. All men are. But they’re also fools, down to the last. Don’t give me that look, Gregory, you are. The lot of you. Remember, it took you three months to realize Mycroft was trying to have dinner with you.”

“He kept sending Anthea!”

“Precisely. You Holmes’ are all alike, aren’t you? Well. Here we are, now, Sherlock’s gone and bolloxed it all. So it’s to us to fix it.”

Mycroft voice is like his tie – neat, crisp, and clean.

“The question is not to whom it has fallen to clean up my brother’s mistake. It is _how_ we are meant to go about this.”

“Couldn’t we just get them both drunk and lock them in a room together?”

“It concerns me that your solutions often seem to involve drunkenness.”

“Oh, bugger off.”

“Gregory!”

“Sorry, Mrs. H.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update: hard drive is dead, sending the computer in to be fixed. updates will continue to be sporadic for a few days.


	10. Chapter 10

“Sherlock, it’s time you come home now. There’s an absolutely _dreadful_ smell in the kitchen, and you know I won’t go near your fridge. Up you go then, and shame on you, lying about like there’s something wrong with you.”

“Mrs. Hudson, much as I would like to accompany you to Baker Street, it would ruin my plans of lying here until I die.”

“Piffle. Out of bed this instant, young man.”

Sherlock turns over dramatically, cracking one eye open and looking up at Mrs. Hudson.

“I have ruined everything. I have lost the one good thing in my life. Fond as I am of you, there is nothing for me at Baker Street, and I sincerely doubt my ability to return.”

“My stars. Sherlock Holmes doubts his ability to do something? This _is_ serious!”

“Lestrade believes I should confess.”

“Confess what, love?”

“Please, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Alright, alright. Well, why don’t you?”

“Of course. Brilliant. Confess, and destroy the infinitesimally tiny chance that he will ever return.”

“I’ll do without the sarcasm, young man.”

"Mrs. Hudson, I have every reason to believe that John hates me. The likelihood that he would _listen_ to me long enough for me to confess is negligible. However, so long as he does not realize that, along with everything else I have done to push him away, I am also... Well, there is the _tiniest_ of chances that he will recover from his initial anger and come back at some future point in time. To admit my... _Condition_ would be to ensure his complete departure from my life."

"You, my dear, are a blithering idiot. Out of bed, _now_."

 

Harry wants me off her couch. She doesn't come out and say it, not as such, but I can tell. And I want to leave, as well. I don't want to stay at my sister's forever. It's just. Where am I to go? I can't go back to Baker Street. Clearly not. But I haven't really got any place else to go, have I? Thing is, normally I'd go round my girlfriend's. But I don't... I can't... Honestly? I just want to go home.

And why shouldn't I? Really, it's my flat as well. I pay part of the rent, some months. Most months. There's no reason I shouldn't be able to just... To just _go_ back, to live there, in my room, and the main room and the kitchen, and I won't ever have to _see_ him or _talk_ to him, not really, not if I don't want to. That’s not a ridiculous thing to want. To expect.

Except I don’t want it, not really. I want to go back. Back to before, that is. I want it to be like it was, before he… He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to _do_ that. Not with him, this Victor. Could’ve just _said_ , said that he knew, that he’d _deduced_ it, right, whatever, and that he didn’t… He had no problem saying it before. He didn’t have to throw it in my face, not like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who has a shiny, new hard drive?
> 
> my computer, clearly, i don't have a hard drive. i think.


	11. Chapter 11

“Hello?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes?”

“Oh, dear, Sherlock isn’t seeing anyone right now. He’s not been feeling well lately, you see. Shall I take a message?”

“Yeah, tell him that as soon as I find out what he did to my brother, I’m gonna kill him. No, scratch that. It doesn’t _matter_ what he did, I’m gonna kill him anyway.”

“Dear, you’re John’s sister, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Come in, please. I believe we ought to speak.”

 

“You’ve got to be shitting me. Shit, sorry. Damn. I don’t…”

“It’s quite alright, dear. Would you like some more tea?”

“Ta, yeah. Right, so the two of them are pining away like idiots, and Sherlock _sleeps with another guy_? Isn’t he supposed to be some sort of genius?”

“Well, now, dear, that’s not quite how it happened. Sherlock was, as I understand, _indisposed_. And the man rather took advantage of him.”

“Raped him, you mean?”

“He hasn’t said so in quite so many words, but yes, I believe that’s what happened.”

“Jesus H Christ!”

“Harriet Watson!”

“Sorry. Sorry. Right. Johnny doesn’t know, you know. He wouldn’t… He would never hold that against him. Not Johnny.”

“I rather suspected. The dilemma seems to be _how_ , precisely, do we make it known to John what happened, and beyond that, how do we bring the two of them to realize how idiotic they are being.”

“I’ll bloody well tell Johnny, see if I don’t. If he’d known, he would _never_ have left.”

“Oh, dear, do be careful. How do you think John will feel when he finds out that he left Sherlock in this state?”

“No offense, Mrs. Hudson, but Johnny’s a big boy. He’s made a bloody great mistake, and he needs to fix it. I’ll not have him moping about my flat and ignoring this whole thing.”

 

“John Hamish Watson!”

“Leave off, Harry. I’ll clean up when I’m done.”

“Pack your things, Johnny. You’re leaving.”

“Christ, Harry, really? At least give me half an hour to find somewhere to…”

“You’re going back to Baker Street.”

“Like hell.”

“You are. Because, my dearest little brother, _I know something you don’t know_.”

“The secret to staying eight years old forever?”

“Your man Sherlock _didn’t_ cheat on you.”

“Didn’t… Harry, I… Of course he didn’t _cheat_ on me, that implies…”

“Step back, Johnny, I’m going to attempt delicacy. Sherlock was _taken advantage of_.”

“Taken ad… What?”

“He was…”

“I _know_ what you said, Harry, what did you _mean_?”

“For fuck’s sake, Johnny, he was _raped_! That Victor character drugged him up and buggered him without Sherlock's go-ahead. It wasn’t his _fault_ , Johnny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enter, stage left: harry watson, the angry big sister.  
> exit, stage right: harry watson, the expositor.
> 
> ugh, i probably have to update the warnings, don't i.
> 
> ps is that how harry talks? i just suppose. i kind of make these characters up as i go along, you guys, i'm gonna be honest.


	12. Chapter 12

It concerns me how acclimated I have become to John slamming into my office. True, I had not expected him, but his presence itself hardly surprises me.

“You knew.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You knew. You _knew_.”

“I know a great many things, Dr. Watson. Perhaps if you could clarify the specific one to which you are referring…”

“Damnit, Mycroft, you _knew_! You knew what Victor did to him. You knew Sherlock was… You _knew_ , and you didn’t tell me!”

“As you may recall, I did try to… Really, now, John, was that necessary?”

John winces, hopping on one foot – he clearly did not expect the side table to be quite as heavy as it is – fine oak, an antique – and appears to regret having attempted to kick it over.

“I don’t have time for this. I have to find him. Where is he?”

“I would assume he is at home, though you checked there before coming here to berate me, of course.”

“FUCK. Damnit, Mycroft, why do you…”

“Mycroft, I’ve just… Oh, John. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I… I’ve got to go.”

 

“Is he going home?”

“It seems so.”

“Bloody hell, _finally_.”

“Indeed.”

 

* * *

 

 

I ignore Mrs. Hudson when she calls to me from her door – I can always apologize later. I race up the steps, and I remember the first time I came here, how I hobbled up them, unsteady and uncertain. My chest tightens as I burst through the door only to find that Sherlock isn’t in the front room.

“Sherlock!”

He doesn’t answer, and I slam into the kitchen, which is, shockingly, not covered in experiments.

“Sherlock,”

and this time a slosh of water answers me, and I hurry into the toilet. Sherlock is lying in the tub, paler than I’ve ever seen him, curled into the foetal position. He doesn’t stir when I enter, or when I say his name again.

“Sherlock, mate, what are you…”

 

I’m not sure what I expected when I put my hand on his bare shoulder. I certainly didn’t expect skin stretched so tightly across bone, or a complete lack of warmth. I lingered there, in a state of confusion, until he shifted over – it must have taken all his strength, and when I finally managed to look at him, I almost wished I hadn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #minivacay  
> #backnow  
> #ohshitshedidn't  
> #ohshitshedid


	13. Chapter 13

The ascent from sleep to wakefulness is a long and difficult one. I become aware by degrees, and each millimetre I open my eyes is a fight. I can feel before I can hear, hear before I can smell, smell before I can taste, taste before I can think, and think before I can see.

Through it all, there is something familiar. There is a feeling, a presence, and then there is a sound, a heartbeat, maybe, or breathing, and then a scent, like hot tea and wool and the ocean. There is an occasional touch, a gentle press of skin against skin, my forehead, my lips, my hand. There are murmured words, sounds and syllables that I can’t piece together.

 

“Sherlock, please, wake up. I’m so sorry, I am. I didn’t know. I thought… It doesn’t matter. I’m here. I’m here, with you, and I’m not leaving, so please wake up. I was wrong, so wrong, and I can’t… I can’t make that right, but I’m here with you now.”

His hand is limp in mine, but there’s a warmth to it, now, and I can feel his pulse beating in his wrist. It’s been close to ten hours since I came home, since I found him… We’d call it non-responsive, I suppose. I haven’t left his bedside. Mycroft arranged it all, a private room, a silent staff who checked on him every hour, never asked me to move, to leave. Not that I would’ve. I’ll never leave him again.

 

John’s hand is heavy atop mine. That’s the first thing I know, truly know. John’s hand is on mine, and it’s heavy.

John’s breathing is deep and even. He is asleep, head resting on the bed next to me. I don’t know how to wake him up.

My limbs will not move, not the way I want them to. In attempting to raise my hand enough to tap John, I only manage to brush up against his palm.

Trying to speak produces a jumble of thick, painful, and nonsensical noises. John stirs, tightening his hand over mine and pressing forward a bit, so that his head is against my arm.

 

Sherlock is shifting under my hand when I wake up. I rub the drool from my chin and look at him expectantly – his eyes are finally open, the color of winter rain. His lips are chapped, and I fumble with the cup they left, slipping an ice cube between them. He swallows gratefully, and reaches awkwardly for my hand. I slip my fingers through his, and he squeezes weakly.

“Sherlock,”

my voice is gravelly, and I blush, clearing my throat.

“Sherlock,”

I try again, and he flutters his fingers against mine.

“How do you feel? I’m so glad you’re awake. Christ, I thought you were going to…”

I choke on the words I didn’t want to say anyway, and he nods.

“Me, too,”

he rasps, and I squeeze his hand until he winces, but he doesn’t pull away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys, i'll be honest. there's some bad shit going down in my life, so this is not my main priority atm.  
> but i want so badly to finish it.  
> so please bear with me.


	14. Chapter 14

“It’s really far too soon for him to be released. It’s not medically sound…”

“I’m a doctor, Mycroft, I think I can handle this.”

“Your judgment may not be especially clear in this case.”

“I’m not having this fight with you. He wants to go home, I want to go home, we’re going home. End of story.”

He’s right, of course, Sherlock isn’t ready to be released. He’s weak and uncoordinated, still being fed by drip. But he wants so badly to simply _go home_ , and I want so badly to take him there. So despite Mycroft’s logically unimpeachable arguments, Sherlock is clothed in a pair of pyjamas and wrapped in his greatcoat, I’ve called a taxi, and I’m practically carrying him down to the kerb, as Mycroft follows and protests.

 

“Will you stay with me?”

I’ve helped Sherlock up the steps, and carried him through the main room and into his bedroom. He’s tucked into bed now, looking pale and exhausted against the pile of pillows I used to prop him up.

“Of course I will, Sherlock. I’m not going to leave you, not ever.”

He reaches out, suddenly, catching my wrist. His grip is weak, but I shuffle forward, closer to the bed, as he pulls my hand towards his face. He rests his cheek against my palm, and I brush my thumb across his cheekbone.

“You’re not well, Sherlock.”

“You’ll make me better,”

his tone is familiar – it’s the one he uses when he is convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he’s correct, and all I can do is nod.

 

Everything is irritating. The needle in my arm, feeding me a steady stream of nutrients and fluids, the feeling of my pyjamas against my skin, the weight of the bedclothes, the lack of mental stimuli, the exhaustion that accompanies too much exertion. John has gone into the kitchen to make some food, and has promised me soup – as though that will relieve the boredom – and I want to crawl out of my skin. The only thing that relieves these feelings is John’s touch, when he helps me to the toilet, when he changes my pyjamas, when he checks my pulse, when he strokes my cheek or forehead. His fingers in my hair, trying to clear out the worst of the tangles, or stroking down my chest, smoothing out the wrinkles in my top. His hand at my back as I struggle to sit up on my own, or changing the bandage over my IV. His touch, his voice, and his smile are the only indications that I will survive the hell of being confined to my bed.

 

“Come on, Sherlock. You can do this on your own, I know you can.”

His brow furrows as he struggles to push himself sitting, the muscles in his arms flexing under the too-pale skin.

“I don’t understand why this is so difficult. No, don’t – I _understand_ , of course, but I simply don’t see why my body hasn’t recuperated yet. It’s been three days.”

“Sherlock, you were near death. It’ll take longer than three days to recover from that.”

“Bloody stupid things. Bodies, that is. Even if you _do_ ‘take care’ of them, feed them regularly, take exercise, that lot, they _still_ wear out on you, they still disintegrate as the years wear on.”

He’s pulled himself upright finally, and he grabs my arm, suddenly, gripping tightly, and his eyes are wide when he turns them on me.

“I don’t want that, John, not for either of us. I don’t want to…”

“Get old?”

“To cease to exist. I don’t want you to. I fear that, should you, I should, as well.”

His lower lip trembles, just the tiniest bit, and that’s more than I can bear, after hearing his confession, that he’s afraid to die, to grow old, to lose me.

 

His lips are dry and chapped beneath mine, and he hasn’t cleaned his teeth since yesterday, but that doesn’t matter. What matters, all that matters, is that his left hand immediately grips my neck, holding tight, pulling me closer. He doesn’t protest as I lower him gently back against the pillows, just hangs onto my collar, ensuring that I follow him down. Once his weight is settled on the bed, his other hand comes up, tangling in my hair, nails scraping gently at the nape of my neck.

“John,”

he pulls back just enough to tumble words against my lips.

“John, did you mean it?”

“Mean what,”

my voice is rough, and I swallow thickly as his eyes lock on mine.

“You said you'd never leave me. Did you mean it, John?”

“Of course,”

I breathe, and he lets out a tiny noise, perhaps a moan, and presses our lips together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's about that time, you guys.


	15. Chapter 15

He is nothing but bones. This should stop me. I should back off, move away – I shouldn’t shift forward, cup his head tighter, press harder against his lips.

Then again, he shouldn’t hold so tightly to my shirt, shouldn’t fumble so desperately at my hem, shouldn’t press up against me the way he does.

He does, though, and I do, as well, and without either of us really acknowledging it, my shirt is discarded, then my vest, and I can’t not do this.

 

John’s skin is warm under my hands, and I am acutely, almost painfully aware of the contrast, my skin stretched tight over bone, his stretched across muscle and fat and flesh. He is _healthy_ , and I am pale and weak and _disgusting_. But God, he kisses me as though I’m the most perfect thing in the world, and I can lose myself in that, at least for a bit.

 

“Sherlock, we shouldn’t,”

my voice is rough, deep and thick, and his pupils are blown wide as he tries to focus on me.

“You’re not well, you’re…”

“ _Please_ , John. You don’t… I’ve waited so long.”

His grip on my neck tightens, and it takes more strength than before to pull back.

“Waited for _what_?”

He can’t mean… But what _can_ he mean? Because if he wanted, you know, sex, he didn’t have to wait for me. Clearly. But then…

“For you. For this. Don’t make me say it, John, don’t.”

“Say _what_ , Sherlock? God, you know I’m not…”

“Not gay, I _know_ , I know, but please. Please. I’ve wanted this for so long, and then I thought I’d lost you but you came back, you _came back to me_ , and I can’t… You kissed me, John. Please. You must want… You must want something.”

“I want you, Sherlock. I have. But you’re not _well_. You’re still weak, you’re still…”

The protests die on my lips as Sherlock braces himself and flips me over, landing me on the bed and climbing on top of me.

“I’m not.”

 

His lips are chapped, moist from his constant licking, and surprisingly easy to coax open. His tongue is soft, smooth, tasting faintly of the soup he fixed for lunch. Immaterial. His body is solid beneath mine, but not immovable. His hands on my hips are tight, strong. A noise escapes my throat as he rolls me over, bracing his hands beside my head, taking control of the kiss. His protests regarding my health or general well-being seem forgotten as he fumbles with my top, catching it on my chin as he rips it off. His skin is warm against mine, and I can feel the beat of his heart as it hammers against his ribs. His breath is heavy, and it takes me a moment to realize that mine is, too. My pulse races just as fast as his, my heart matching his beat for beat.

 

I ought to stop. I should. Need to. He is pale and thin, fragile, and I could break him. Fingerprint bruises are already forming on his hips, the lines of my nails visible where they caught as I pulled his top away. This is too much for him, too soon. I can’t do this to him.

So says the voice in my head.

The voice in my head belongs to a better man than I.

 

I register, faintly, the shift in his position – he lowers himself to his elbows, lips still on mine, shifting onto his right arm, freeing his left for… Oh. Oh. I’d forgotten about this. His hand is warm through my bottoms, gentle at first, testing, experimenting. Slowly, too slowly, he traces the outline, far too gently, through two layers of fabric. He recoils when I release a snarl – surprised, as I am, by its viciousness.

“Harder. Now.”

His wide, blue eyes meet mine for a moment, and then he smiles, the smile that smells like Spring, and comes back to my lips, kissing me roughly as his hand slips beneath the fabric, slides down my skin, and… And…

 

Sherlock’s hips jump against my hand as I grip his cock, simply holding him, squeezing gently. He tears his lips from mine, gasping for breath, and I kiss along his jaw and down his neck.

“John,”

he whines, a noise I’ve never heard from him, and I can’t stop my teeth from closing against his collarbone. His hips spasm again, and the sheer _impracticality_ of his bottoms and pants strikes me, so I pull back far enough that I can tug them down his legs. He kicks up, almost catching me in the groin, desperate to rid himself of the offending clothing. I take a moment to consider his body, naked now, and it’s beautiful and painful and I love him so much in this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> k so i put these two together cause there's no reason for this to be 800 chapters.


	16. Chapter 16

John’s eyes are the color of the sea and the sky and if I could drown in them, spend forever there, I would. His eyes are locked to mine as his mouth, his imperfectly shaped mouth, thin lips that extend farther to the right than the left, considers, probes, and finally accepts me.

On occasion, I wish I had John’s gift for words, the way he can describe and explain in ways that capture the attention. I am often told I am overly-clinical and detached in my accounts and descriptions, and while this is an exceedingly useful skill in my work, it does have the unfortunate effect of making me sound… Aloof.

John’s mouth is amazing. I have no words to describe the feeling, none that fit the context. I could talk about the way my brain is releasing copious amounts of oxytocin and norepinephrine, how the blood vessels in my genitals are dilated, how John is attempting to suppress his gag reflex in order to open his throat to accommodate the length of my penis. John could talk about other things, things that would capture the perfection of this moment, the heat, the feeling, the beauty. I cannot.

 

He is perfect. He lies beneath me, completely surrenders his control, his only movement the occasional squirm and the constant rise and fall of his chest as he gasps for air, his only sound the mewls and whines of pleasure, the occasional half-murmur of,

“Yes, John, please,”

and

“John, I can’t, I can’t.”

But he can. And he will.

 

John is doing a.

A _thing_.

With his mouth.

And his.

This.

I was, um.

I studied, and I knew that people.

Did.

This.

But.

 

Sherlock falls apart above me as I work my fingers into him, doing my best to prep him as he writhes and moans and just generally goes to pieces. His voice is broken as he pleads, things like,

“John, I can’t, I can’t, please,”

and

“Please, I need… John, _please_ ,”

and

“ _John_ ,”

and I simply cannot be bothered to be in the rush that he is in – I’ve waited for this, and I intend to take my time and do it right.

 

My sense of time has gone off. John has been torturing me for hours that are really minutes, his fingers and tongue tearing me apart and holding me together. A lifetime later, a lifetime that passes in a heartbeat, he pulls back and then shuffles forwards, leaning over me, one hand bracing himself by my shoulder, the other guiding himself. I shudder and moan and proceed to fall farther apart than I thought was possible – I shake to pieces, and John is there, through it all, his bright eyes that smell like Spring looking down at me, the side of his mouth that isn’t caught between his teeth curving up into a smile, and he presses in achingly slowly, determined to destroy me, as though he hasn’t already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST DO IT, JOHN, GODDAMNIT.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock could explain this. He could tell you which chemicals, in what amounts, my brain is producing. He could tell you which synapses are firing to make the pinpoints of light that flare up behind my closed eyes. He could list the muscles he’s using, the ones I’m using. He could explain away why I feel as if he is the only thing keeping me tied to this world, his hands gripping my shoulders, his legs tangled around my hips. He could say why the fact that our mouths are together, breathing one another’s air, is making me dizzy. He has the words for that, the words that I could rattle off in Uni but haven’t really used since. The words I could probably find, if I could concentrate on anything other than the heat of him, the way he curls his hands weakly around my neck, the way I have to coax his bottom lip out from between his teeth so I can lick my way past it and into his mouth. But I can’t.

 

_If_ I were willing to compare this to my past… Experiences, I would point to the fact that John’s warmth above me does not burn, does not consume, and the fire in my veins is _mine_ , not _theirs_.

_If_ I were willing to think about it, I would point out that John uses his teeth, but not to hurt, not to tear, simply to focus, to draw my attention, perhaps to mark, but never to harm.

_If_ I were willing to acknowledge _that_ , I would mention that John has laid me face-up, and presses his forehead to mine, stares into my eyes, tastes my lips, breathes my air.

_If_ I cared to, I would say that this, what John is doing to me, hurts, but in the way that all good things hurt – this hurts because I know that it will end, that it cannot last forever. It tightens my chest, it tears at my heart. But it does not detract from the experience, this moment of John, above me, inside me, holding me and kissing me and _loving_ me. Loving me in a way that I suppose I did not believe was possible, not for me.

Who could love me? It would take someone as brilliant, as miraculous as John.

 

He is my undoing. All of him, his silver eyes with blown pupils, his soft, pink lips, his high cheekbones and the curls sweated to his forehead, his long, lean body below me, all sharp angles and bones, his breath and the way it ghosts across my cheek, the words he says, _breathes_ , really, the,

“ _John_ ,”

and,

“ _Please_ ,”

and,

“ _I love you_ ,”

and that is what does me in, to hear him say it, to feel his lips move against my skin as he whispers the word _love_ as though it’s just alright, as though I should _know_. As though I should always have known.

 

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, too, you know. I have.”

“You…”

“Love you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you daft git. You. I love you.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“No, with my name. Say it with my name.”

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“Again.”

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“Again.”

“I’m going to bloody kill you, Sherlock, Christ! I love you, alright? I’ve said it now, more than you have.”

“I love you, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END YOU GUYS I'M FVCKING FINISHED LIKE SERIOUSLY I'M SO DONE


End file.
